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“ World Classics 


Armande 

SU^<W^ |W *‘ ,W 

E> and J. GONCOURT 

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Translated by Alfred E Haserick 


Illustrations by Marold. 



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Copyright , 18Q4, by 
Joseph Knight Company 


1 


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John Wilson and Son, Cambridge 
U. S. A. 


INTRODUCTION. 


"JpHE relation of the American 
reader to the French author is 
so indirect that it is almost neces- 
sary to make an appeal to the 
former to make his advances in as 
nearly the spirit of one of the lat- 
ter’s fellow-countrymen as possible. 
He must remember that the author 
is endeavoring to interest a French 
audience ; that he is approaching 
their ideas of wit and humor, their 
standards of right and wrong, their 
love of light, buoyant motion, which 
to the average American sometimes 
seems trivial and superficial. How 
i i 


2 


, INTRODUCTION. 


different, then, will appear the motif 
and the plot when the sober Ameri- 
can puts on his French spectacles, 
and places himself in touch with the 
author’s soul ! With what increased 
pleasure will he receive the impres- 
sions the story is intended to convey 
if he imagines himself, for the time 
being, in Paris and a Frenchman ! 

ft 

Edmond Louis Antoine Huot 
de Goncourt was born at Nancy, 
May 26, 1822; and the birth of his 
brother, Jules Alfred Huot de 
Goncourt, occurred at Paris, De- 
cember 17, 1830. Their father was 
a superior officer in the army, and 
he gave his sons the benefit of an 
excellent education, which was com- 
pleted by a tour of travel. It was 
during this journeying that the na- 


INTRODUCTION. 


3 


tures of the brothers asserted them- 
selves so strongly that the two 
intellects seemed blended into one ; 
and the life ambition of each was 
to make a reputation in the literary 
world. 

The name of the Goncourts intro- 
duces us at once to M. Zola and his 
school of naturalists. This small 
but enthusiastic company of novel- 
ists and critics affect, with character- 
istic French temperament, to bring 
about a radical change in poetry, 
fiction, and the drama. But for the 
names of Zola, Flaubert, Daudet, 
and the Goncourts, the movement 
would have attracted little notice, 
as the followers of these masters, 
with the single exception of M. Guy 
de Maupassant, have not gained 
popularity. 


4 


INTRODUCTION. 


The doctrines of the naturalists 
are well defined by their acknowl- 
edged leader, M. Émile Zola, who is 
described as a “ robust and gloomy 
genius, a romanticist by tempera- 
ment, a sectarian by accident, a 
great landscapist, a handler of 
masses of humanity, a constructive 
artist who has created visible and 
palpable beings living in harmony 
with their surroundings, but who 
has, nevertheless, seen little except 
the coarse surface and envelope of 
life.” He claims that “naturalism 
is, as it were, an impersonal ency- 
clopaedia of materiality, and its only 
merit is its spirit of minute analysis. 
It is devoid of thought of any kind, 
much more of elevation of ideas, 
and in the selection of subjects of 
observation it tends to prefer those 


INTRODUCTION. 


5 


that are saddening, and even vile 
and repulsive.” 

Literature must be strictly scien- 
tific, and confine itself to anat- 
omy and, as it appears, to morbid 
anatomy alone. The romantic 
treatment which preceded the es- 
tablishment of the natural school, 
and which presented natural facts 
in an artistic setting, is strictly pro- 
hibited. The ambition of a disciple 
of naturalism, in a word, seems to 
be to present, with as much fulness 
of detail as possible, that which is 
considered by other writers as un- 
presentable. The Goncourts take a 
broader view of the doctrines, as is 
shown by Edmond’s definition of 
the requirements of the school. 
He says : — 

“ I don’t like the word ‘ natural- 


6 


INTRODUCTION. 


ism ; ’ it means bird-stuffing. The 
proper term is * naturism.’ The 
limits are simply these : all the sci- 
entific, barring the obscene. Truth 
must be detached ; it depends upon 
the angle of vision. The writer 
who is a painter is more apt to be 
a naturist ; still, there are some 
writers who feel landscape and do 
not understand human nature.” 

While M. Zola may be regarded 
as the head and front of the natural- 
ists, yet the Goncourts are the pion- 
eers of the modern French realistic 
novel. Their lives exhibited, to a 
remarkable degree, characteristics 
of sympathy and union seldom seen 
in collaborators. Actuated by the 
same love for literature, they com- 
bined their efforts, each one seem- 
ing to form a perfect complement 


INTRODUCTION. 


7 


for the other. The public came to 
accept them as a single personality, 
and made no effort to discover 
which portion of the work belonged 
to each. 

From the first, these authors re- 
solved to do away, without the 
possibility of return, with old con- 
ventionalities, with overdrawn rep- 
resentations, and with that pompous 
insipidity of style which, as Michelet 
has said, “heavily oppressed the 
writings of Rabelais, Agrippa, Au- 
bigné, Régnier, and La Fontaine. 

In the whole grand literary epoch 
of France there have not been such 
reformers, and the results of their 
efforts have had a wide-reaching 
influence. “ They were the first • 
réalistes ,” says Th. de Banville, “in 
the true and elevated sense of that 


8 


INTRODUCTION. 


often dishonored and misunderstood 
word.” 

M. Zola himself says that “ MM. 
de Goncourt have introduced into 
French literature a new sensation 
of nature. They do not feel as 
people felt before them. They 
have nerves of excessive delicacy, 
which increase tenfold the intensity 
of the smallest impressions. They 
render what they have seen pic- 
torically, musically, vibrating with 
reality, quivering with personal life. 
They do not merely relate ; they 
produce before the reader a pres- 
entation of each object, display 
their characters in the air which 
surrounds them, with the laugh 
that lights up their visages. Their 
sensations are not simple, but mul- 
tiple ; they do not conceive men as 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


existing in isolation, but as being 
completed by the milieu in which 
they move.” 

The claim made by the Goncourts 
that they were apporteurs de neuf 
must not be misunderstood. They 
did bring to literature a “ newness,” 
but it was not novelty of thought ; 
for this was contrary to the prin- 
ciples of naturalism. Their contri- 
bution to the literary altar was 
that novelty which is given by 
acute observation, sensitiveness of 
touch, and lightness of portrayal. 
“ Historians of the art and society 
of the eighteenth century,” writes 
Theodore Child, “they reconstituted 
that epoch with an unparalleled 
wealth of documents of all kinds, 
which they commented upon with 
singular acuity and delicacy of per- 


IO 


INTRODUCTION. 


ception ; and at a time when the art 
of the eighteenth century was for- 
gotten or despised, they proclaimed 
its superiority in pages of definitive 
and admirably expressed analysis. 
The language of the Goncourts is 
as novel as their vision ; it is 
strangely refined and very com- 
plex; it is the style of exasperated 
artists who write for artists, and 
seek the precise and rare notation 
of artistic sensations.” 

This touches the keynote of the 
purpose of the Goncourts. Their 
style is to-day as incomprehensible 
to the vulgar as it was twenty years 
ago. Aristocrats themselves, they 
disdained to be hampered by the 
necessity of making their books 
“popular,” in the ordinary inter- 
pretation of the word, preferring to 


INTRODUCTION. 


II 


confine themselves to the narrower 
world of “artists.” 

Thus these brothers worked out 
their plots on the groundwork of 
truth and simplicity. Elaborate 
constructions had no place in their 
writings, nor did their subjects ad- 
mit of complicated rhetoric. “ If 
it were given to me to grow young 
again,” says M. Edmond de Gon- 
court, “ I should write novels that 
have no more complications than 
the simple dramas of real life. I 
should even dispense with death as 
a dénouement as being too ‘stagey.’ 
Had my brother lived, our purpose 
was to discard even love from the 
novel, and give ourselves to the 
study of other sentiments. Already 
we had begun it, and found that 
woman’s piety and unselfishness, or 


12 


INTRODUCTION. 


brotherly love, for instance, was a 
sufficient theme to write books 
upon. At last, this livre de raison , 
should it become what I see it, 
could no longer be called a novel. 
I have sought a name for it, but 
in vain. Some young writer of the 
future will perhaps find it.” 

The first appearance of the 
young authors in the literary world 
was under the assumed name of 
“Cornelius Holff.” In 1852 a few 
light productions — “ La Lorette,” 
“ Les Actrices,” “ Les Mystères du 
Théâtre,” “ La Voiture de Masques ” 
— appeared over the name of the 
Goncourts; but the first work to 
attract attention was given to the 
public in 1854, entitled “ En 18 — .” 
The brothers give the following 
interesting account of the reception 


INTRODUCTION. 


13 


of their first novel. By a curious 
coincidence the novel was to be 
published on Dec. 2, 1851, — the day 
of the Coup d ’ État . They write : — 
“ In the morning, when we were 
lazily dreaming of edition after edi- 
tion, there entered, with noise and 
slamming of the doors, our cousin 
Blamont, a cidevant garde du corps , 
who was now a pepper-and-salt 
conservative, asthmatic, and always 
angry. 

“ ‘ It is done ! ’ said he. 

“ ‘ What is done ? ’ 

“‘Well, the Coup d’ État ! ’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! And our novel, which is 
to be put on sale to-day ? ’ 

“‘Your novel? A novel? France 
cares little now for novels. ’ ” 

The brothers went out upon the 
streets, and found the walls of the 


*4 


INTRODUCTION. 


buildings covered with placards, on 
which were the proclamations of 
the new government ; but they 
could not find among them a no- 
tice which was to proclaim to the 
world the advent of two new aspir- 
ants for literary fame. The pub- 
lisher had become frightened, and 
had thrown the placards into the 
fire. 

The portions of the writings of 
the Goncourts which have not met 
with universal favor are those 
which deal with history. Their 
so-called “ Social History ” has 
been criticised for its superficiality 
and its spirit of trifling, while the 
“ History of Marie Antoinette ” is 
said, by its opponents, to show the 
unfortunate queen in an entirely 
false light. The later novels of 


INTRODUCTION. 


15 


the Goncourts, .however, silenced 
the critics. One who had bitterly 
condemned their historical work 
wrote later : “ Hitherto they have 
written history which is nothing 
but romance ; now they write ro- 
mances which are in reality history. 
Hitherto they have modelled in 
clay; but henceforth they are des- 
tined to cast in bronze.” 

The Goncourts have been criti- 
cised also for the frankness and 
minuteness with which they have 
portrayed the coarse, the unwhole- 
some, and the painful ; yet no one 
attempts to deny that they are, 
at the same time, delicate and 
refined. They declare that “ the 
beautiful is precisely what appears 
abominable to uneducated eyes. 
The beautiful is what your mistress 


l6 INTRODUCTION. 

and your servant consider, instinc- 
tively, to be frightful.” Again they 
write : “ The mass of the people 
love neither the true nor the sim- 
ple ; they love fanfarotmade and 
charlatanism.” The great fear of 
the Goncourts was that, by means 
of popular education, the people 
would become transformed into a 
democracy resembling America, — 
“ a democracy rich, powerful, am- 
bitious, but destitute of all feeling 
for art. Alas for the day when our 
people succeed in Americanizing 
themselves ! ” 

The Goncourts delighted to with- 
draw themselves from 'the “ vulgar 
crowd,” and join the party of con- 
genial spirits who made up the 
famous Diner Magny ; where, every 
Friday during the Empire, together 


INTRODUCTION. 


1 7 


with Taine, Berthelot, Gavarni, 
Renan, Scherer, Nefftzer, Saint- 
Victor, Théophile Gautier, and 
Flaubert, they gathered around the 
table of Sainte-Beuve. “There are 
in France,” write the Goncourts, 
“ a few score of us — artists, savants , 
men of the world — who understand 
the end and the groundwork of 
things. Enlightened epicureans, we 
enjoy all that the world has to offer 
of the most rare, delicate, and agree- 
able. Outside of our circle surges 
incessantly the vile multitude.” 

At these meetings the Goncourts 
were accustomed to drink in, with 
jealous ears, the choice conversa- 
tions and the learned discussions 
of the after-dinner talk, and on 
their return to their apartments 
they would pass the hours of the 


2 


l8 INTRODUCTION. 

night in transcribing them in their 
diary. Here we find a striking 
pen-portrait of Georges Sand when 
she lived with Manceau in the Rue 
Racine ; another as she appeared 
at Nohant, drawn by Théophile 
Gautier, and reproduced in inimit- 
able style by the Goncourts. Here, 
again, is a capital picture of Miche- 
let, described as having the appear- 
ance of a petit bourgeois rageur. 

The pictures drawn by the Gon- 
courts of their contemporaries are 
especially valuable, as they show 
their subjects with unusual exacti- 
tude. Gautier is said to have 
looked like a lazy lion ; he wore 
his hair long, and affected some- 
thing of the sphinx. The brothers 
repeat the following description 
given of himself as he worked at 


INTRODUCTION. 


19 




his feuilleton : “ At eleven o’clock I 
take a chair; I put on the table 
the paper, the ink, the pens, the 
instruments of torture. It bores 
me to write, — it always did, it is so 
useless. . . . When I am once there 
I write quietly, like a public writer. 
I don’t go fast, but I never stop ; 
for, you know, I never look for 
anything better. An article is a 
thing of impulse ; it is like a child, 
— it is, or it is not. I never think 
of what I am going to write. I 
take my pen and write. I am a 
man of letters, and know my trade. 
... I throw my phrases in the air ; 
like cats, I am sure that they will 
fall on their feet.” 

Flaubert is described as being 
less sceptical and more genial than 
Gautier. The Goncourts tell us 


» 


20 


INTRODUCTION. 


that he had absurd theories upon 
the art of writing, like receipts for 
cooking ; he devoted so much atten- 
tion to the words that the idea was 
sometimes forgotten. His conver- 
sation was coarse, and he is said to 
have been somewhat of a fanfaroti 
of vice. 

About is capitally described by 
the brothers. They say : — 

“We meet About while we are 
walking in the woods of Bellevue. 
He talks, he unbosoms himself, he 
becomes expansive. It is the meas- 
ure of a very intelligent man of the 
world, with a reminder of the pro- 
fessor and a little of the quack. 
He speaks of his person, of his 
hair, which is growing gray, of his 
mother, of his sister, of his family, 
of his castle of Saverne, of his five 


INTRODUCTION. 


21 


servants, of the eighteen people 
he always has at his table, of his 
hunting, of his friend Sarcey, of 
his disillusion in reading over the 
‘ Notre-Dame de Paris ’ last week, 
of the qualities of Ponson du 
Terrail, and of the opinion he has 
of him with Mérimée. It is the 
successful moi , but not too heavy, 
not too insupportable, saved by 
clever monkey tricks, by little flat- 
teries for the litterateurs present. 
But in his conversation there is 
not an atom which is not terrestrial, 
Parisian, and small newspaper.” 

Sainte-Beuve is portrayed as “a 
small, round, rustic-appearing man, 
with a large forehead, a bald head, 
great eyes starting from his head, 
an irregular nose, an ugly mouth, 
with an amiable smile, — looking 


22 


INTRODUCTION. 


like a provincial librarian living in 
the dust of books, under which 
some good Burgundy wine would 
lie concealed.” 

But of all these littérateurs, the 
Princess Mathilde formed the cen- 
tral figure. It was in her salon 
that the frequenters of the Diner 
Magny came in contact with others 
besides themselves ; and the prin- 
cess was the omnipresent goddess 
who made it possible for this “ out- 
side world ” to meet the exclusive 
men-of-letters without conflict. “ A 
curious physiognomy,” say the Gon- 
courts, “ this princess, with the suc- 
cession of impressions of all sorts 
which she receives, and with those 
enigmatic eyes which pierce you. 
Her mind is something of her eye. 
Here and there a word comes out 


INTRODUCTION. 


2 3 


which paints, à la Saint-Simon, a 
thing or a man.” 

This exclusiveness of the Gon- 
courts, while it tended to enlarge 
their intellectual faculties, unfortu- 
nately had the effect of making 
them melancholy. “ All observers 
are sad,” they write, “ and must be 
so. They are spectators of life. 
They are not actors, but witnesses ; 
they take part neither in what may 
deceive nor in what will intoxicate. 
Their normal condition is that of 
melancholy serenity.” Again they 
write : “ Nature is for me an enemy; 
the country seems to me funereal. 
This green earth suggests a cem- 
etery awaiting its dead. That grass 
feeds on man. Those trees grow 
upon and blossom from what has 
died. This sun which shines so 


24 


INTRODUCTION. 


brightly, imperturable, and peaceful, 
is but the great force which putre- 
fies. Trees, sky, water, — all appear 
to me merely as a life-grant of land, 
where the gardener sets out a few 
new flowers every spring, around a 
small basin of gold-fish.” 

The work of the Goncourts has 
nowhere been so well described as 
by Élie Reclus. “Their agreeable 
water colors,” he writes, “ their 
charming sketches, wherein they 
have caught the essence of contem- 
porary French intellect and the fea- 
tures of Parisian physiognomy, will 
be one day studied by antiquaries 
with the same curious care which 
they have themselves expended 
upon the pictures of Fragonard 
or the pastels of Latour. Their 
exceptional merit consists in the 


INTRODUCTION. 


happy alliance of a lively imagina- 
tion, with patient and conscientious 
work; of a witty and mercurial 
poetic faculty, with an observation 
as delicate and precise as that of 
the physician and statistician ; of ex- 
act drawing, brilliant color, elegant 
style, and a form often exquisite, 
united to a perfect command of 
technicalities. Passing with a sin- 
gular facility from graceful fancies 
to painful realities, they find on 
their rich palette colors at once for 
the diaphanous wings of the butter- 
fly, and also for malignant pustules 
and cancers in suppuration. They 
transport themselves readily from 
the infirmary to the workshop of the 
painter or of the sculptor ; they 
pass from the salon of the Princess 
Mathilde to the bedside of the 
outcast.” 


26 


INTRODUCTION. 


The combined labors of the Gon- 
courts came to an end when Jules 
died in 1870. For many years he 
had been the victim of a nervous 
disease, which had rendered him so 
sensitive that the slightest noise 
caused him the most acute suffer- 
ing. For this reason the brothers 
took up their residence at Auteuil, 
and here Jules died, at the height 
of his popularity, which had been 
laboriously won. 

Since the death of his brother, 
Edmond has lived alone in the 
delightful home to which they both 
had been so much attached. The 
following description of it is given by 
one familiar with its appearance : — 

“As dainty as that of a petite- 
maîtresse, is this house; and, in its 
kind, one of the marvels of Paris. 


INTRODUCTION. 


2 7 


M. de Goncourt cannot absent him- 
self long from its familiar surround- 
ings and precious souvenirs. He 
is back from the summer vacation 
in time to see the leaves in his 
garden change color, and to watch 
the first flush of autumn tints spread 
along the banks of the Seine and 
over the hills of St. Cloud. Let 
us enter the house. The staircase, 
in its sheath of white silk, gayly 
embroidered, suggests some fabled 
tree whose branches bear treasures. 
From the vestibule up to the last 
floor, a series of Japanese minia- 
tures, in gilded bamboo frames, 
alternate with the choicest prints 
of last century’s fantasists. Every 
landing is arranged with quaint 
tables and settees and rare knick- 
knacks. We will go at once to the 


28 


INTRODUCTION. 


grenier , a good room for talking, 
as the master says. This loft at 
the top of the house is not the 
study, though its altitude would 
make it tempting to many writers. 
It is rather the arena where famous 
bouts of conversation have taken 
place, — the reception-room where 
only favored ones are received. 
Some very precious souvenirs are 
stored here. Book-shelves are filled 
with editions of the moderns printed 
on wonderful paper, each book con- 
taining a sheet of the author’s 
original manuscript. But the real 
treasures are in the glazed book- 
case ; there are the chief works 
written by the two brothers, their 
interlaced initials stamped upon the 
gilded edges. One binding is in 
leather, representing leaves and 


INTRODUCTION. 


29 


flowers plucked from their own 
garden, chiselled in relief and ex- 
quisitely tinted, — the tender greens, 
rich purples, and pale yellows glow- 
ing with life. Another is stamped 
with the silver medallion portrait of 
Jules de Goncourt ; and ‘ La Femme 
au XVIII. Siècle’ is bound between 
two enamels of Petitot, — nude 
female figures of delightful work- 
manship. Some incomparable Ga- 
varni’s on the wall complete the 
artistic impression.” 

That M. de Goncourt sadly misses 
his brother is shown by his every 
movement. To a visitor he once 
said : “ Ah, those long years of com- 
panionship with my brother have 
spoiled me; we so completed each 
other, mind and heart. I never 
hoped I could find that in a woman. 


3 ° 


INTRODUCTION. 


I hate being alone, and I should 
have married long ago if I could 
have felt sure of meeting with an 
intellect that would not prove dis- 
appointing. My admiration for 
women is very restricted, for the 
reason that usually their intellect 
has a weak side. My brother and 
I were indefatigable workers ; we 
were like a pair of horses: when 
one ceased pulling the other carried 
him on. Not that we did not 
accomplish the same amount of 
work ; for our method required the 
strict application of both. When a 
subject was decided upon and talked 
over, we retired to separate rooms, 
and each wrote out his interpreta- 
tion of it. When the chapters were 
finished, — it is curious what I am 
going to tell you, — they were read 


INTRODUCTION. 


31 

aloud and, as if by instinct, both 
pointed to the copy to be used. 
The other one was discarded, and 
seldom, very seldom, did we utilize 
any of its material. Never did we 
disagree ; both recognized at once 
the better inspiration of the one.*’ 

M. de Goncourt — who still retains 
the title of the twin-authorship, MM. 
de Goncourt — has accomplished a 
vast amount of work since his 
brother’s death. Since Gustave 
Flaubert died he has been consid- 
ered as the father of the modern 
novel, — “ the genial ancestor and 
cher maître to whom the débutants 
dedicate their books, and whom 
even the most violent critics of the 
opposition treat with respect.” His 
method of working, as related by 
himself, is most interesting. He 
says : — 


32 


INTRODUCTION. 


“ I begin thinking toward two 
o’clock in the afternoon. When 
twilight falls I start out for a short 
walk in the direction of St. Cloud. 
It is the hour when the street-lamps 
are lighted ; the passers-by are shad- 
ows, — I do not see them. The 
shops are splashes of light and 
indistinct objects. The excitement 
of the physical exercise, and the 
half gloom of the hour, powerfully 
affect the mind. As ideas occur 
in connection with the theme on 
which I am at work, I jot them 
down in my notebook, without see- 
ing what I write. After dinner I 
look them over, and complete them 
with a word here and there. Then 
I sleep, and the next morning, be- 
tween eight and twelve, the chapter 
is written.” 


INTRODUCTION. 


33 


M. de Goncourt asserts that a 
room in which writing is done 
should be without decorations, and 
that the prevailing color should be 
grey, — a neutral tone, which dis- 
tracts neither the eye nor the mind. 
To excite ideas, however, the author 
claims that sumptuous surroundings 
are of the utmost importance. 

The elder brother has given to the 
world his last novel. For several 
years he has devoted his labors 
exclusively to the “Journal des 
Goncourt,” the last volume of 
which will not appear until twenty 
years after his death ; and he has 
announced that when this is com- 
pleted he will lay down his pen 
forever. 

Dumas has portrayed royalty and 
the nobility; Balzac has shown us 
3 


34 


INTRODUCTION. 


heroes of the middle classes; but 
it has been left to the brothers 
De Goncourt to introduce to us 
heroes and heroines taken from the 
humble lives and surroundings of 
the theatre, the circus, and the 
hospital. Their artistic and real- 
istic portrayal of the lower types 
of modem civilization is as perfect 
as it is unique. 


William Dana Orcutt. 


A r mande. 





ARMANDE. 

I. 

yEN o’clock. Night. No moon. 

The rattle and rumble of wheels, 
sparks struck from the cobblestones, 
an open carriage door, a woman 
alighting, black shadows creeping 
about the carriage top, the backs of 
white horses for a moment glisten- 
ing in the lantern light, muffled 
sleepy-heads at the windows, two 

37 


3 § 


ARMANDE. 


wooden boxes on the ground. One, 
two, three loud cracks of a whip : 
“Hue ! hop-là ! hue ! ” — the dili- 
gence from Bordeaux to Toulouse 
moves noisily off, and dashes away ; 
the thunder of its wheels grows 
fainter and fainter, — dies complete- 
ly away. Nothing in the world 
sleeps like the house of a small 
town. Man and beast, — all are 
abed. Langon is dead. Alone one 
little window shines, wherein a head 
in a big night-cap stands out against 
the light. The lady glances now 
down at her boxes, now up at the 
night-cap, which does not budge. 

“ Monsieur,” she ventures, after 
an interval. 

“ Who ’s there ?” — and he in the 
night-cap bends down into the shad- 
ows, and tries to see. 





. . . Monsieur, I am an 
actress . . . 







ARMANDE. 


41 


“ Monsieur, I am an actress.” 

“ Ah ! ” 

“ Can you tell me where my man- 
ager is ? ” 

“ But I don’t know of any theatre 
here.” 

“ What ? have no actors arrived, 
then ? ” 

“ Ah, yes ; for the fair. They play 
here for a fortnight ; ah, yes ! Are 
you going to get to work right 
away ? ” 

The lady felt her heart harden 
• within her. Angrily she stared at 
the night-cap, and asked sharply : — 

“ Monsieur, can you tell me of an 
hotel here ? ” 

“ There ’s no hotel here.” 

« What ! ” 

“ That ’s to say, there is ; but 
everybody goes to bed at eight. 


42 


ARMANDE. 


They don’t keep open after that. If 
you like, we can give you a room 
here.” 

“ Oh, thank you very much, Mon- 
sieur.” 

They put down a mattress for her 
on the bare boards of a room on the 
ground-floor ; she slept, and dreamed 
a dream. La Dangeville* came in 
through the wall, escorted with great 
ceremony by four gentlemen-of-the- 
chamber. She held in her hand the 
permission of Louis XV. for her 
début at the Comédie-Française, and 
each one of the handsome gentle- 
men had his heart pierced by a 
gilded arrow, on which was written, 
Armande. 

* Dangeville (Marie Anne Bolat), a French 
actress, born in Paris in 1714, died in 1796. 



IL 

“ ^^ELL, and my manager ? ” asked 
Armande, tying her bonnet 

strings. 

“Your manager? I don’t know 
where he is, but I will send some- 
body with you to the theatre,” — and 
he of the night-cap, who was none 

43 


44 


ARMANDE. 


other than the postmaster of Lan- 
gon, whistled. 

Immediately, in answer to this 
summons, there appeared a little 
urchin, weather-beaten and bronzed, 
ragged and filthy, the soles of whose 
bare feet were burnished like the 
hoofs of an animal. 

Away she went, with a step full of 
roguery and mischief, following the 
child. Her eighteen years lit up 
her every feature. At every step 
the roses mounted to her cheeks. 
She moved along, she turned about, 
she picked up her dress, — a very 
Grace afoot ! Her hat of straw 
graced her pretty head like the halo 
of the Virgin. 

A thousand sunbeams cut capers 
and wrestled on her silken, pearl- 
gray gown. Like a black butterfly 


ARMANDE. 


45 


about to speed away, her lace shawl 
fluttered from her shoulders; and, 
half hid beneath her petticoat, two 
little feet trotted nimbly over the 
ground, — two little arched feet, 
quick and sure ; two little feet nest- 
ling in the whitest of stockings, held 
captive in the tiniest of shoes, which 
made a merry clink, clink with their 
heels. 

The white houses with their red 
shutters awakened in a glorious sun- 
shine, and cast across the street 
the long, irregular shadows of their 
roofs. 

The great oxen, with their blunted 
horns and shaggy coats, their fierce 
heads proudly bearing a sheep’s 
fleece, as the breast of Hercules 
bore the skin of the Nemean lion, 


46 


ARMANDE. 


tramped heavily and clumsily along. 
With chattering and laughter all the 
doors have opened, each surmounted 
by a pretty cross of St. John, made 
from the pith of the elder bush ; 
and among the shrubs and red 
earthenware pots which cumber the 
steps of each decayed and moss- 
grown stairway, and even behind the 
planks which took the place of the 
broken sashes of the windows in 
the ancient Henry III. houses, there 
are great, greedy eyes which follow 
and feed upon those two tiny heels. 
On they went over the dark ground, 
trotting, skipping, just escaping the 
dirt, skimming the puddles in the 
roadway, flying over the pointed 
stones, bounding hither and thither 
in reckless glee, — just like two little 
black mice, hurrying and skurrying 



« 

... A shoe, so fine, so elegant, 
so neat . . . 



ARMANDE. 


49 


along as if they knew that every eye 
in the village was upon them. They 
appeared indeed no longer to touch 
the earth, and to be bearing along, 
in spite of herself, the blushing 
Armande, who turned in the most 
graceful of poses to beseech the 
mud to spare her pretty gown. 

Oh, how lovely ! — what is there 
throughout the wide world more 
beautiful than a pretty foot and 
ankle! And how novel a spectacle 
for Langon: a shoe so fine, so ele- 
gant, so neat, — such a shoe as Borel 
might have designed for a Fanchette 
de Rétif ! 

“ By Jove, look there ! ” exclaimed 
Périgord, the barber, his hands full 
of suds, rubbing the soap into the 
eyes of the unfortunate wretch who 
chanced to be beneath his razor. 


4 


50 


ARMANDE. 





The street was long and hilly ; not 
a window, not a doorway that did 
not shelter a spectator. Armande 
trotted along more briskly than ever. 
“ Here we are,” cried the boy, and 
away he rushed as fast as his little 
legs could carry him. 

Armande raised her eyes. She 
read : “ Café de la Providence .” 




|_|E slept. 

His was the slumber profound 
and saintly which springs from the 
alliance of a conscience of gold with 
a stomach of iron. He lay prone 
across the doorway, completely 
blocking it ; his rosy belly had, as 
it were, spread out over the soft 
earth on which he lay, and rested 
there, quivering. So as to be more 
at his ease, he had stretched out his 
short legs. A fold of fat and a few 
white lashes were the sole indica- 


5 1 


ARMANDE. 


tion of the whereabouts of his eyes. 
In his motionless snout his breath 
came and went peacefully, and so 
thoroughly was he tasting the sweets 
of sound slumber that his little curly 
tail had become somewhat undone. 
The sun cradled him in caresses and 
showered its gold upon his thick 
bristles, his speckled sides, and 
adown his long back, covered with 
round, black patches. Neither re- 
morse nor dream disturbed his 
siesta, — honest old pig that he was. 
His pose was eloquent of peace, of 
a luxurious abandon wonderful to 
behold. At long intervals, for the 
purpose of frightening away the flies, 
he moved about a fourth of his ear ; 
but, like a prince fanned by a slave, 
that didn’t wake him, — quite the 
contrary. 




. . . She strode over the sleeper, 
and entered . . . 





ARMANDE. 


55 


Armande nerved herself for a 
spring ; she strode over the sleeper, 
and entered the Café. Seated at a 
table an old fellow, a white apron 
tied about his waist, and spectacles 
on his nose, was writing in a green 
book. 

“ Monsieur, I am Mademoiselle 
Armande.” 

“ Ah ! there you are ! I was ex- 
pecting you, my child.” 

He raised his spectacles, and fix- 
ing his gaze upon her, — 

“ Quite a little journey from Bor- 
deaux, eh ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Will you breakfast ? ” 

“ Thank you, I have breakfasted.” 
“ Well, then, come and sit beside 
me ; you shall keep me company, 
and we ’ll talk over our business, eh. 


56 


ARMANDE. 


But, my child, you don’t need to 
dress up so finely as that these days, 
you know, — eh? You see you’ll 
get so dirty working — ” 

When the pig perceived that 
Armande was striding over him, he 
roused himself; when he saw that 
she went into the house he fol- 
lowed ; hearing the conversation, he 
grunted, scratching himself the while 
against an old billiard table. 

“ And you ’ll have plenty of work 
to do,” went on the man, allowing 
no interruption. 

“ But, monsieur, when do the per- 
formances commence ? ” 

“ What ? ” 

“ Why, the comedy, of course. 
Are you not the manager ? ” 


ARMANDE. 


57 


“ The manager of what ? ” 

“ Of the theatre.” 

“ No. Have n’t you come here to 
be my servant ? ” 

“ Why, no ; I am an actress.” 

“ Oh ! Why, you see it ’s this 
way. I asked them to send me a 
girl from Bordeaux to work during 
the fair, and I thought you were the 
one. The theatre is here right 
enough, — upstairs in the loft. But 
that ’s the manager, eating over 
yonder, opposite.” 

A few seconds later there came 
up a big fellow in a white blouse, 
red breeches, and yellow sheepskin 
slippers, down at the heel, who 
opened wide an enormous mouth to 
say to Armande : — 

“ Mademoiselle, you ’re a beauty 


58 


ARMANDE. 




and no mistake! You ’ll give a fin- 
ish to the whole show.” 

And then, after having nervously 
twisted his cap about for a bit in his 
great red hands, — 

“ Come,” said he, “ I ’ll introduce 
you to the manager.” 




IV. 

JUST outside the inn door ten men 
were standing in a row. When 
Armande appeared these ten men 
took off their ten caps together. The 
first of the ten, who wore a frock- 
coat, closely buttoned up over a 
black satin stock, ran through his 
greasy locks a dirty cuff and five 
fingers adorned with rings. He 

59 


6o 


ARMANDE. 


bowed low, as he would at a curtain 
call. 

^Mademoiselle Armande — ” 

“ I have the honour of addressing 
Monsieur the manager ? ” 

“The same in the person of the son 
of his mother. But let us not take 
root here. The unworthy natives 
are observing us. Be good enough, 
fair lady, to enter. We were about 
to take a trifle to nourish our poor, 
miserable bodies — Say ! Made- 
leine Lamour! a plate and a glass 
for Mademoiselle, next to me, and 
be quick about it, now ! ” 

The ten men hung up their ten 
caps and took up their ten forks 
again. After two mouthfuls, — 

“ Mademoiselle has an apartment 
in the town ? ” asked the manager. 

“ Oh dear, no, monsieur ; not yet.” 


ARMANDE. 


6l 


“ Holy Moses ! Do you know, 
dove of my heart, ’t will be no easy 
work to find you quarters in this 
nest of squeamish bourgeoisie.” 

“ Squeamish 1 ” exclaimed in one 
voice the nine remaining men ; “ do 
you know that two actors actually 
stole here ? ” 

And nine pieces of cake closed 
the nine mouths of the chorus. 

“ But never mind, don’t run away, 
timid little creature ; rest your little 
body. We’ll write to la Providence 
about it ! Ah ! and so you haven’t 
any lodging ; you must come and 
grub with us.” 

“ But how about the ladies ? ” 
asked Armande, decidedly alarmed. 

“Ladies! ladies! Well, well, is 
it frightened of its old father, then ? 
The ladies are coming right along. 


62 


ARMANDE. 


Be patient; he who makes haste 
never gets anywhere. The ladies 
are in the diligence from Nantes. 
That ’s to say, Mômignard is not 
coming ; Madame is consumptive. 
She ’s drying up ; can’t live more 
than six months or so. That ’s num- 
ber one. As for Saint-Firmin, she ’s 
all right, — she ’ll turn up to-morrow. 
After all, I don’t care a hang if 
Mômignard does kick the bucket, 
— a woman with a squawky voice, 
who goes to bed with a bottle of 
cod-liver oil, and is as broken down 
and wheezy as an old hack ! 

“ And those arms which her eco- 
nomical father charitably permitted 
her to have — so short ! You know 
them, Bouscaille? Why, on our 
opening day she could n’t even raise 
them over her head ! And proud ! 


ARMANDE. 


63 


as proud as a bug in a carriage. 
And then she only wanted to appear 
in new plays ! And what a fuss she 
made about playing in the ‘Fantôme 
vivant,’ and the ‘Chien de Mon- 
targis!’ Good heavens! Said they 
were n’t good form ! Not good form, 
— M. Pixérécourt’s plays ! Rot ! I 
tell you those old fellows had as 
much good stuff in ’em as any of your 
modern writers. But what ’s the use 
o’ talking ? — the good time of good 
plays, my dears, is gone ; they ’re 
chucked out, like young cuckoos. 
But, my sweet angel, you ’re shying 
at your food, aren’t you? You 
know you really must n’t get it into 
your little head that they are in the 
habit here of serving you, on week- 
days, a stew of diamonds, and 
pheasants with the grand cordon 


64 


ARMANDE. 


of the Legion of Honour on their 
breasts.” 

Armande did not reply; she was 
looking around her. At the end of 
the room, which opened on to the 
court yard, the inn-keeper, who was, 
as is often the case in small towns in 
the South, also butcher, armed with 
an old shoe fastened to the end of a 
long stick, was busy brushing the 
flies off the quarters of raw meat 
which hung from the ceiling. 

“ Damn it ! the drama ’s gone to 
the very devil ! — to the devil, I tell 
you ! Ah ! what bricks those old 
actors were ; they never got tired 
thundering phrases which tickled 
your ears well, and monologues 
worth listening to. They were spicy 
enough, too, I tell you, those fine old 
plays, — the people had to wipe their 
peepers on their sleeves. 







... Just outside the inn 
door . . . 


% 


4 





ARMANDE. 


67 


“And what an avalanche of ap- 
plause came crushing down on one 
always just at quarter to twelve ! 
You wouldn’t have been more start- 
led and shaken if the — well, if the 
obelisk itself had tumbled on top of 
you up in the quarries of Mont- 
martre ! Big, blustering, swagger- 
ing fellows frightened the very life 
out of you ! And what do they do 
nowadays ? The piece must smack 
of the court and philanthropy, of 
course, — all finery and friendship ! 
Crimes must be smoothed over! 
Good gracious ! how on earth are 
you going to move the public with 
that sort of thing? It’s as though 
the Assize court had been built by a 
cabinet-maker, of rosewood edged 
with the finest copper ! ” 

Neighbour on the left : — 


68 


ARMANDE. 


“ Mort de cheval de grâce laisse- 
moi la paix de Tilsitt de Suisse.” * 

“ Oh, confound your jokes. I ’m 
sick of ’em ! 

“ Why, look you, they ’ve actually 
persuaded the bourgeois that it ’s 
bad for his digestion to see anybody 
butchered on the stage; bad for the 
nerves which his wife inherited from 
the last revolution ! What on earth 
is good for him, then ? And when 
one fumes he might as well fume 
properly, with the voice of a man 

# There is a game in France called 
“queues de mots,” — word-ends, somewhat 
like the English hidden-word game; but in 
the French the words taken together have 
no sense. Thus in “ Mort de cheval de 
grâce laisse-moi la paix de Tilsitt de Suisse.” 
We find, (i) Mort de cheval , — an oath; (2) 
val de grâce , — the name of a Paris hospi- 
tal ; (3) Paix de Tilsitt, — the Peace of Til- 
sitt; and possibly others. 


ARMANDE. 


69 


who quarrels about a few sous in 
buying a country estate.” 

Neighbour on the left: — 

“ De sauvage avancé la voiture de 
sanglier les mains derrière le dossier 
de notaire du Pré-aux-Clercs de l’une 
et l’autre ruche.” * 

“ Villains with kid gloves ! labour- 
ers so virtuous, whose grammar is 
so faultless, ugh ! — the sooner they 
marry the rosières t and the goody- 

* “ De sauvage avancé la voiture de sang- 
lier les mains derrière le dossier de notaire 
du Pré-aux-Clercs de l’une et l’autre ruche ” 
(1) age avancé, — advanced age; (2) lier les 
mains derrière le dos , — to bind the hands 
behind the back; (3) aire du Pré-au(x), — 
the area of the prison or convent yard ; (4) 
Clercs de l'une ( clair de lune), — moonlight ; 
(5) l'autre ruche ( V autruche ), — the ostrich. 

f In some of the villages of France a pretty 
custom obtains, — the giving of a wreath of 
roses to the girl whose conduct has been the 


7o 


ARMANDE. 


goody little girls who carry off the 
Montyon prizes,* the better ! 

best during the year. This ceremony is 
much more solemn and serious than that 
which attends the choice of a May Queen in 
England, which in other respects it resem- 
bles, and is of exceedingly ancient origin, it 
having been instituted, according to histo- 
rians, by Saint Médard, Bishop of Noyon, in 
the fifth century. The Bishop was also 
Seigneur of Salmay, and “gave yearly to the 
girl on his estates whose reputation was the 
best a sum of twenty-five livres and a chaplet 
of roses. The first rosière , his own sister, 
was crowned in 525, having been chosen by 
the people as the most virtuous girl in the 
countryside.” A most interesting account 
is to be found in Larousse, from which the 
above is quoted. 

* Baron Montyon was a wealthy and 
philanthropic French nobleman, born in 
Paris in 1733. He bequeathed the greater 
part of his large fortune to benevolent and 
learned institutions, and was the founder of 
the “ Montyon Prize of Virtue,” given by 
the Academy. “ His name,” says Lamar- 


ARMANDE. 


71 


“A good piece ! Would you like 
to know what a good piece really 
is ? W ell, it ’s — And are n’t their 
traitors terrible! When a kilo of 
rough-on-rats has got to their heads, 
they have to writhe about in a mild 
sort of way in a tiny armchair. 

“ A good piece, a good piece, I tell 
you ! Tut, tut. And look at their 
plots nowadays! Nothing — mere 
spider-webs ; you can guess how 
they ’ll end from the very beginning ; 
you see it all through as clearly as 
you do the Arc de Triomphe from the 
beginning of the Champs Ëlysées ! 
and that ’s the sort of thing they call 
a secret plot, — a thing as plain as 
day ! And their trumpery gestures, — 

tine, “ is the foremost on the roll of national 
nobility.” He died in 1820. (Diet, of 
Biog.) 


72 


ARMANDE. 


ugh ! all numbered and ticketed like 
the keys of a private boarding-house. 
Let them give us a Georges ! and let 
them tell me when they do, — I ’ll 
pay the damages ! ” 

Neighbour on the left: — 

“ De mer lantimèche de fouet gras 
comme un moine eau de Cologne.” * 
Neighbour on the right*., — 

“ Oh ! that beast of a woman ! she 
paid enough for her rouge ; but the 
public hissed her all the same.” 
Second neighbour on the left : — 

“ The public ? Who ’s talking of 
the public ? I ’ll give it the public ! ” 

* “De mer lantimèche de fouet gras 
comme un moine eau de Cologne.” (i) 
merlan , — whiting; (2) mèche de fouet , — 
whip lash ; (3) fou et gras, — foolish and 
fat; (4) gras comme un moine , — fat as a 
monk; (5) moineau, — sparrow; (6) eau de 
Cologne. 


ARMANDE. 


73 


“ Shut your mouth, you ass ! 
That ’s it, go for the public, like 
the man who kills the goose that 
lays the golden eggs. The public ’s 
our patron, you fool ! Do you 
know who ’s at the bottom of the 
whole business ? — those damned 
rascals the feuilleton writers.” 

First neighbour on the left : — 

“ Mariné d’argent d’armes.” * 

“ Look here, you make me sick 
with your queues de mots ! You see, 
Ratichon, there are fellows who are 
absolutely good for nothing, and 
who make six thousand a year! I 
knew one myself who could n’t write 
a word unless he was wearing a skull- 
cap ; it ’s too much, too much. Well, 
that is the kind of idiots who have 

* Mariné d'argent d'armes. ( i ) Marin , 
sailor ; (2) gent cT armes , gendarmes. 


74 


ARMANDE. 


jawed such rubbish in their journals ; 
that word ’s not choice enough ! — 
that ’s not sufficiently clear ! Y our 
language is that of the stables, and 
so on and so on, as Mômignard 
would say. It is n’t nice ! not nice, 
my dears, — a play that runs for a 
hundred nights, which makes even 
gendarmes faint from excitement, 
and plays the devil with the women ! 
Not nice, — a play that tickled your 
insides, and almost turned your 
stomach, and haunted you at night 
like a corpse from the morgue ! 

“Nonsense, I tell you! Hello 
there, Madeleine Lamour! my glass 
is empty ! — But that ’s not all. Do 
you know what . they want, — the 
cynics ? They simply want to kill 
laughter altogether. 

“ Puns ? Oh, no ! they ’d as soon 
have a flea in their ear ! 


\ ’ 



. . • I’m no fool. I divide vaudevilles 
into two sorts . . . 





ARMANDE. 


77 


“ I ’m no fool. I divide vaude- 
villes into two sorts. There are 
vaudevilles which allow of your go- 
ing out and attending to business, 
and others which have no intervals. 
Well, they ’re for those which have 
no intervals. That ’s what they like, 
insipid fools ! Dramatic art, as I 
tell all your journalists, is the art of 
tumbling. I tell them distinctly that 
it isn’t at all what they think, dra- 
matic art ; it ’s simply the art of 
tumbling : because — look you — 
there ’s not a phrase, not a verse, 
nothing that makes the effect — of 
what ? do you know of what ? I ’ll 
tell you: well, of the jump from a 
boat. Let a young actor put his 
legs apart, fling himself from a boat 
to the wooden floor beneath; throw 
up his arms wildly heavenward, — 


78 


ARMANDE. 


like this ; give a good kick-out ! — 
business, boat disappears, fine! — if 
the property-man happens to have a 
pair of leather pants, by George! 
there ’ll be no end of applause ! ” 

Second neighbour on the right : 
“Well, now, see here, how about 
Bouchardy ? ” 

“You don’t know what you ’re 
talking about, man ! Bouchardy ! 
he ’s the best of the lot.” 



\ 



V. 

'"pHE manager slowly drew from his 
pocket a carven pipe. An imagi- 
native artist of Rochefort had shaped 
the bowl into the head of a young 
Peruvian Princess, a fillet of feath- 
ers upon her head, and around her 
neck a ruff of the time of Henri III. 
When the smoke began to curl nicely 
about the nose of the young Inca, 
the smoker offered his arm to Ar- 
mande, and the entire troupe sallied 

79 


So 


ARMAN DE. 


merrily forth, proud as a battalion 
carrying new colours. 

The company strolled leisurely 
along, the manager halting every 
now and then to find fault with a 
house, to pull up his braces, or to 
relight his pipe. The nine others 
rallied together, fell back, crowded 
together, and scattered again, wheel- 
ing about Armande, now overwhelm- 
ing her with compliments, now wor- 
rying her with madrigals. 

“ Monsieur,” — said to the only 
boy who could understand him, the 
only man in Langon who knew the 
exact spot where stood the velités * 
during the battle of Tunis between 
Xanthippus and Attilius Regulus, — 
“ Monsieur, you ought to be very 

* Velités, light-armed soldiers, — skir- 
mishers. 



. . . The company strolled 
leisurely along . . . 







ARMANDE. 


83 


thankful to those poor folks. Don’t 
you see why they ’re executing a 
manoeuvre of Yegetius. See ? they 
advance en échelon , the disposition 
of Epaminondas as described by 
Xenophon ! Now quick, do you 
know what that is ? Pharsalus ! the 
infantry of the two armies massed 
in squares ; the fellow on the right, 
with the brown cap, stands for the 
one thousand cavalry of Cæsar ; he 
on the left in the green cap, the seven 
thousand of Pompey ! Ah ! ah ! ex- 
cellent ! look, the quarto, depugnatio ! 
Marathon ! the feeble centre and 
the powerful wings ! 

“ Now they ’re doing the tortoise — 
testudo — and look ! they are ten ; 
ten, just as many as there were 
cohorts in a legion ! And see, oh, 
look ! the Roman order, the three 


8 4 


ARMANDE. 


ranks, the kastati ,* there where you 
see all that pipe smoke, the prin- 
cipes t — that fellow blowing his nose 
— and the triarii % where you see 
those two men in frock coats ! 

“ Good ! very good ! Now we have 
the true Macedonian phalanx of 
Philip, the Invincible of the ancients, 
which Polybi — ” 

But the pupil of the professor of 
history was paying much more at- 
tention to the cause of all these 
manœuvres than to the manœuvres 
themselves. 

* Hastati — the first line of a Roman army 
drawn up in line of battle. 

t Principes — the second line. 

+ Triarii — the third line, formed of vet- 
eran Roman soldiers. 



s 












VI. 


r J'*HE next day, in the evening, 
some one knocked at Armande’s 
door. 

“ Madame de Saint-Firmin comes 
to welcome you on your arrival ; ” and 

87 


88 


ARMANDE. 


there stood before the manager the 
tottering form of a little old man, 
tightly wrapped in a threadbare 
cloak. The- withered little creature 
had very little hair, gray and white, 
a dead-and-alive look, sharp fea- 
tures, and the pallid appearance of 
those who are poorly nourished and 
who drink. 

He went up to Armande, took her 
head in his hands, gave her a search- 
ing look, and kissed her. 

Armande tried to escape. 

“ Say, old man ! ” said the creature 
to the manager, “ you never told the 
child ?.. I take a man’s part on 
the stage, my darling ; but I ’m a 
^oman.” 

Armande then noticed that the 
old hag hadn’t a scrap of beard. 

' “ Oh, you ’re sweet ! I like you, 


# 



. . . When Armande 
awoke . . . 











ARMANDE. 


9 * 


and I ’ll sleep with you, my pet ! ” 
said the old woman. 

The manager had departed. 

When Armande awoke next morn- 
ing her eyes fell upon a weird scene 
in her room. In a cloud of white 
smoke, in the centre of a circle of 
curious little red pots, her feet in 
Armande’s slippers, a loose-fitting 
wrapper on her back, a pair of loose 
trousers upon her bony shins, a side 
parting, lost on her bald head like a 
road in a moor, the old woman was 
blowing on an earthen chafing-dish, 
in which simmered some evil-smell- 
ing grease. She was crooning in a 
broken voice, — 

“ Les bons gendarmes sucent et resucent 
Les morceaux de bois que’est pas sucre; 
Ils s’en r’tournent chez les épiciers, 
Épiciers, tu nous as trompés ! * 

* A well-known street song. 


92 


ARMANDE. 


“ Hello ; well, yes, ducky, I ’m 
cooking ; I ’ve had my spring, like 
other folks, and now I ’m making 
myself useful. I shall never sell as 
much cold-cream as my worthless 
hide has devoured ! Oh ! I say, 
do you know the orders about the 
procession ? Has the old man told 
ye ? No ? Let ’s hope they ’ve 
got saddles for women in this 
hole ! ” 

“ Why saddles for women ? ” 

“ Eh ! why for the cavalcade, of 
course, — call me ‘ little mother,’ 
won’t you ? Must beat the drum 
and blow the trumpet in the coun- 
try, y’ know, — all the troupe on 
horseback. You ’re my height ; you 
can lend me your dress, see ? ” 

“ A cavalcade ? What ! like moun- 


tebanks ? ” 


ARMANDE. 


93 


“ Well, you are green ! that ’s cus- 
tomary in society. A cavalcade ! 
All the great artistes began like 
that ! 




VII. 

A BOTTLE may contain an attack 
of madness ; a watch, but the size 
of a ten-sous piece, four-and-twenty 
hours ; an ink-stand, a masterpiece ; 
a playing card, a fortune; a title, 
success ; a young girl’s heart, the 
whole of Paris; the poniard of a 
Stabs hold the destiny of Europe ; a 
corricolo carry four on each side; 
the world, Cæsar; the fosse com- 


94 


ARMANDE. 


95 


mune, its guests ; a little room, a 
paradise ; a violin, laughter and 
tears. 

All these things are facts ; but 
that the memory of Armande could 
contain at the end of a fortnight all 
these rôles : Marie in “ Le Sonneur 
de Saint-Paul,” Adèle in “ Bruno le 
fileur,” Rodogune in “ Les Econo- 
mies de Cabochard,” Mathilde in 
“ Philippe,” Ernestine in “ Qui se 
ressemble se gêne,” Marie in “ Tire- 
lire,” Juliette in “Sans nom,” Lucia 
in “La Foi, l’Espérance, et la Cha- 
rité,” Marie in “Mémoires du Diable,” 
Antoinette in “ La Citerne d’Albi,” 
Henriette in “Henriette Deschamps,” 
Marguerite in “ Roger Bon temps,” 
and Adélaïde in “ Quatre-vingt dix- 
neuf Moutons et un Champenois,” — 
is a fact that is a miracle. 


96 


ARMANDE. 


And what caused it to be, — this 
miracle ? Only the customary phrase 
of the manager : “ Get this off pat, 
or pack up your traps, my beauty ! ” 




VIII. 

FAIR girl, so fair and young, 
with plump, well-rounded shoul- 
ders, a nuque* which, would drive 
you crazy, the blue of the sky in her 

* Nugue — the nape of the neck. Eng- 
lish authors have seldom, if ever, spoken of 
the beauty of the nape of the neck, which, 
however, is thoroughly appreciated by the 
French. 


7 


97 


9 8 


ARMANDE. 


blue eyes, her cheeks rosy with the 
red of Guerlain, and, over them, a 
tossing tide of something all black 
and wavy ! A dainty and delicate 
little body, a miniature, a doll, and a 
beauty; a woman and a child pass- 
ing unscathed through the snare of 
sinful adventure, the duel between 
God and the devil, the dagger thrusts 
and blue fire, the terror and uproar 
of violence and crime ! 

A statuette of Innocence and 
Charm, moving through this night- 
mare with but an inch or two of 
skirt, — “ and what a skirt ! the most 
pardonable of anachronisms, a caril- 
lon of colour borrowed from Scot- 
land, a little bit of rainbow sewn on 
silk.” And the head of this maiden ! 
What painter could paint it as it 
appears in the flare of those four- 


ARMANDE. 


99 


and-twenty footlights, so strongly 
contrasting with all those masks 
and faces, all those distorted mouths 
and squinting eyes, all those wrin- 
kled foreheads and winy noses, that 
crowd of clowns and libertines, un- 
clean collection of moral deformities, 
plastered with paint, disguised in 
brick-red powder, who flock and 
struggle and swarm around this ap- 
parition of a première communicante. 

There are those, indeed, who swear 
that during the whole of that first per- 
formance they saw the hearts of the 
house break away one by one, settle 
on Armande’s girdle, and remain 
there hanging, for all the world like 
a bunch of toyfish to a magnet. 

The poor little thing played piti- 
ably : her gestures, accent, silence 
even, and that pretty little finger 


100 


ARMANDE. 


placed coyly in the corner of her 
mouth when the traitor, flinging 
aside his mantle, shows his pistols, 
— all was meaningless, and yet in 
her was witchery ! So much artless- 
ness, so much embarrassment, such 
entrancing confusion ! And it was 
so rosy, that ear, lent ever to the 
prompter! Oh, exquisite simplicity, 
delicious despair ! 

It chanced that Armande remem- 
bered a phrase or two ; did her fal- 
tering voide happen upon a telling 
tone, the men in the audience went 
wild with delight; *nor has there 
ever been in the whole wide world a 
greater upset, jumble, and disorder 
of ideas than arose in the brains of 
each one of them. 

In this one, old and musty, house- 
painters, suspended by ropes, were 



. . . And it was so rosy, that ear, lent 
ever to the prompter . . . 







ARMANDE. 


I03 

embellishing a pretty white villa by 
the side of a stream of clear water ; 
a gardener was planting rose-trees, 
and the proprietor of the brain, of 
the villa, and the roses, was standing 
waiting at the door, the house-keys 
in his hand. 

In that brain — that brain pure and 
young — what a hotch-potch ! An 
army of wood-cutters, bare-armed, 
was mercilessly hacking down trees, 
beautiful trees, in a big wood — all 
marked for preservation; away in 
the background was an old woman 
ill in bed, and the manager of the 
estate was bringing in the money to 
the little household. 

In another, a quantity of old 
crown-pieces were bursting out of 
an old woollen stocking, were danc- 
ing and bounding about, right glad 


ARMANDE. 


104 

to see the day once more, rolling 
of their own accord right into 
Armande’s apron. 

Here, an attic and joy, songs in 
the heart, a linnet tilting in its cage 
at the window, many a sip of red 
wine, simple fare, but a wealth of 
tenderness ; there, a post-chaise go- 
ing apace in the moonlight. One 
there was which was nothing but 
books bound in green leather, books 
full of lines of figures, forty to the 
page, — a suspicion of a smile from 
Armande ! Crash ! that brain and 
all its contents fall pell-mell into 
“ the lake ” of M. de Lamartine, out 
of which it presently emerges, blue 
as the heavens themselves. 

In some flowed fragments of 
verses, rhyming lines ending in ande. 
In many flourished fancies worthy 


ARMANDE. 


I°5 


of the attention of the Police Cor- 
rectionnelle. This must indeed be 
confessed : the most sober, the most 
plainly innocent, were the brains of 
the actors, — brains draped in white 
from top to bottom with a hymeneal 
altar right in the middle, and framed 
in a frame of gold the song of Bér- 
anger’s Sénateur. 

Armande received thunders of 
applause, hurrahs, bravos, curtain 
calls, and bouquets without end. 
The play over, all the men of Lan- 
gon, hat in hand, escorted her home, 
and with so many lanterns that the 
town dogs feared for a moment that 
the moon was ablaze, and barked, 
“ Fire ! Fire ! ” to save their mother 
Hecate. 


i ■ 


IX. 



LLE. ARMANDE, leading lady, 


first juvenile woman, ingenue, 
soubrette, and tragédienne, found in 
scenery painting a rest for her weary 
mind. She excelled in painting for- 
ests, which she peopled with parrots 
of a startling scarlet hue, with big 


ARMANDE. 


107 


black beaks as large as a man’s 
hand. 

Mme. Saint-Firmin, first old wo- 
man, proud mother, and walking- 
lady, manufactured cold-cream, and 
sold it to the beaux of the town, at 
fifty centimes the pot. 

The great coquette of the com- 
pany, la Bourdois, who had re- 
placed la Mômignard, told of her 
love adventures whilst on the 
road, and how melon disagreed 
with her. 

The manager clung with marital 
affection to his pipe. 

The general utility man, Lafond, 
spent his time on the bridge watch- 
ing the water, the weather, and the 
steamboats. 

The first juvenile man, the lover, 
compared one glass of brandy with 


io8 


ARMANDE. 


another, performed the perilous feat 
of jumping from the top of the 
stove in the café to the ground, gave 
an imitation of the cornet, broke a 
nut with one finger, and made a rab- 
bit of his dinner napkin. 

The first heavy man, stern parent, 
washed his linen, cured the tooth- 
ache, foretold the weather, made a 
collection of canes in the woods, 
took off his hat to the curé, and 
chucked the serving-maids under 
the chin. 

The low comedian borrowed false 
collars from the leading man, tricks 
from the first juvenile, canes from 
the stern parent, love from Mme. 
Bourdois, money from Armande 
for tobacco, and tobacco from 
the manager so that he need not 
buy any. 



» 

V. 

. . . The light comedian put names 
on the wooden crosses . . . 

\ 

















$ 

































































ê 






























ARMANDE. 


Ill 


The light comedian, formerly a 
letter-painter, in his leisure moments 
put names on the wooden crosses in 
the cemetery. 

The second and third light com- 
edian suffered from an aneurism. 

The supers, four big, burly fellows, 
perched on a fence, lashed the air 
with big horsewhips all the livelong 
day. 

That year the wine was not at all 
bad at Langon. 

That year the sun loitered late, 
full of pity for summer’s dresses. 

Armande, — who had almost un- 
consciously acquired the habit of 
passing before three windows which 
gave her three views of the head of 
a certain young man, who invariably 
rushed frantically to see her, — Ar- 
mande was painting, and with admi- 


1 12 


ARMANDE. 


rable taste, her twenty-ninth parrot, 
red with a black beak, when one 
morning Mme. Saint-Firmin handed 
her three letters. 












"THE first bore the post-mark of 
Bordeaux : — 

“You little beast, were you chained 
up, then, at home ? Don’t think of 
returning ; I had your bed put up in 
the loft. You young hussy, you 
kissed me that night, as usual ; I’d 
rather see you dead. Well, your 
8 ii 3 





ARMANDE. 


114 

poor old mother hasn’t got much 
more time in which to blush about 
you in this world. It ’s all done 
with now. I ’ve nothing more for 
you; and yet I always took you to 
the ball on Sundays. On my death 
bed I will not kiss you, remember. 
You stole some, of my linen when 
you went away. I ’ve lived a life of 
suffering for seventy-eight years ; 
but I can never ask pardon enough 
from the good God for having al- 
lowed you to see that beast of a 
woman from the theatre. Don’t 
answer this ; I don’t want to see 
your writing ; I ’ve told the Rovets 
that I sent you to your aunt in 
Toulouse. You always were head- 
strong, but I thought it was only a 
childish fault. That does n’t matter, 
however, you wicked girl. Your con- 






















































































































ARMANDE. 


IT 7 


science ought to reproach you ; you 
always had finer dresses than any 
rich man’s child ; and when it all 
gets about, what shall I say ? This 
is the last word that you ’ll get from 
your old grandmother; you might 
quite well have waited until I was 
under ground before playing so near 
your home. Whatever you do now 
I don’t care. I had a little girl once ; 
I have one no longer. Your father 
was only a dyer, but he never harmed 
any one ; the poor, dear, good man, 
he ’d have killed you. Don’t you 
come back; Jeannette has a broom- 
stick for p ” 

The second letter bore the Paris 
postmark : — 

“No more ill-luck, little one ! 
What have I done since I left that 


ARMANDE. 


Il8 


dirty hovel of a theatre in Bordeaux ? 
Well, I ’ve made a fortune, sweetest ! 
I ’m at the Folies-Dramatiques. I ’m 
chums with the vaudevillistes, mil- 
lions, and the bonniest boys in the 
world. I live in the morning, I 
live at night, I live all the time. 
I have lovers, caprices, apart- 
ments, furniture, debts, credit, and 
a hundred thousand francs’ worth 
of clothes ! 

“ I ’m roguish, I ’m witty, I shock 
folks ! I make everybody merry ! 
They throw me verses, bouquets, 
hearts, truffles, and no end of dia- 
monds ! I know half of the boule- 
vard, and the other half bows to me. 
I ’m making my mark, my name, and 
my pile ! I ’ve introduced Bordeaux 
crabs, ruined a marquis, and pock- 
eted the independence of a critic. 


ARMANDE. 


IT 9 

The pitblic looks at my short skirts as 
a child looks at a jam tart. 

“ The cancan, that ’s me ! I say 
‘ No ! ’ just like Mile. Rachel. I ’ve 
got the knack of the thing now, and 
know just what to do, and voilà ! I 
sup and sup again ; I tell naughty 
stories and I kick up my heels ; I 
pour out songs, champagne, and 
love. Often makes me a little lame 
in the back , and I cough a bit ; but, 
hang it ! I ’m going to have a good 
time ! What do I care ! 

“ And would you like to know how 
all this luck commenced ? Imagine, 
I was taking a stroll in the Champs 
Ëlysées. I was, oh, so miserable. 
I was returning, my dear, from play- 
ing at Étampes with Monsieur — 
I forget his name — some one you 
don’t know ; he spent the night 


120 


ARMANDE. 


drumming at my windows. I was 
walking on and on ; I felt unsettled 
and uneasy. I met a very much 
decorated member of my family, an 
old chap, who says, ‘ Will you come 
and dine?’ ‘No, thanks, I’m too 
miserable. I want to play at the 
École-Lyrique, and I have n’t twenty- 
four francs.’ He gives them up to 
me at once. An idea occurred to 
me. I pay in my four-and-twenty 
francs at the Lyric, and arrange to 
play there on the Friday following. 
I go to the Folies, not in a carriage 
but on my own feet. I find there a 
fat man, one Mourier, in his den. I 
tell you, I just skipped right in. 

‘ Monsieur, I want to play comedy.’ 
He laughs. ‘ Eh ! well, what can you 
do?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Well, what — ’ 

‘ I want you to come and see me 


ARMANDE. 


121 


play on Friday, at the École-Lyrique.’ 
I had cheek enough for a thousand ! 
He ’d only to tell me that I had n’t 
any talent, and I ’d have called him 
a silly old nincompoop ! ‘ Well, 

well, all right; send me two stalls.’ 
On the Friday I look round the 
theatre — not a sign of Mourier ! 
Good ! I play. Afterwards I go in 
search of the box-keeper : ‘ Did n’t 
an old man come to see me play to- 
day ? ’ ‘Yes, madame, Mourier, the 
manager of the Folies-Dramatiques, 
with another old gentleman. He ’s 
gone/ ‘ Did n’t he leave any mes- 
sage with you for me ? ’ ‘ No.’ 

‘Very well! ’ The next day I take 
a box at the Folies. I dine with a 
friend. I arrive at the Folies. I 
inquire at the box-office, ‘ Did M. 
Mourier go yesterday to the Ecole- 


122 


ARMANDE. 


Lyrique?’ ‘Yes, madame, he went 
to see a new performer.’ ‘ Oh, well, 
I ’m that new performer ; ’ where- 
upon the ticket-man makes me a low 
bow. I was in my box. I was no 
longer thinking of the matter. Some 
one knocks. ‘ M. Mourier would 
like to see you.’ That startles me 
terribly. 

“ My Mourier bids me be seated. 
‘ Mademoiselle, you have ability ; 
You are a very pretty fille terrible. 
I ’ll engage you, if you like, for three 
years at twelve, fifteen, eighteen hun- 
dred francs ; you will play in six 
months time.’ I see I ’ve hooked 
him. ‘ No,’ I said, ‘ you ’ll engage 
me for three years and a half, and 
I ’ll play right away.’ 

“ I played ; the public did n’t hiss 
me, and — there you are ! 


ARMANDE. 


123 


“Well, well, and you, — what are 
you doing ? What will you become ? 
I write to you to most outlandish 
places. 

“ What does it all mean ? You ’ll 
get mouldy in these suburban sorts 
of places ; you ’ll wear yourself out 
for people who ought to be of use to 
you and put you up to a good thing. 
But you won’t make a centime out 
of the whole show, my dear. It ’s 
too stupid ! Now pay attention ; 
I ’m not writing to throw mud at 
you; I love you, dearest, and very 
much, too. Where there ’s luck for 
one, there ’s luck for two. Tell your 
manager anything you like, so long 
as you get away : that you’ve got 
cholera ; that you ’ve made a vow to 
go and touch the Vendôme column ; 
that you have to look after some 


124 


ARMANDE. 


property you have just inherited on 
the Pont-Neuf, — whatever you can 
think of ; get away as fast as you 
can, and come right here. I ’ll give 
you your lesson ; I ’ll fire you off at 
Mourier, — we ’ll sell him : I ’ll teach 
you three movements and three in- 
tonations ; I ’ll paint your eyebrows ; 
you ’ll make your début, — and if at 
the end of a fortnight I ’m not jeal- 
ous of you, I ’ll become a rosière ! 

“ Fanny Cascade.” 

The third letter bore no stamp, 
and read : — 

“ Mademoiselle, — We can hard- 
ly hope that the manager of the 
Théâtre-Français will come all the 
way from the Rue Richelieu hither 
for the purpose of engaging you. 
Will you allow me to conduct you 
to him?” 



XI. 

J N a furnished room in the Rue de 
Trévise, this is how she looked: 
her hair — a sea of sunny waves — 
broke into golden billows on her fore- 
head ; upon two little strips, hardly 

I2 5 


126 


ARMANDE. 


more than an inch in breadth, de- 
volved the duty of holding up a 
chemise decked with English em- 
broidery, — one only was at its post 
on the shoulder, the other had slipped 
and rested half-way down her arm; 
the candle light played over her white 
skin, fair and clear as marble. She 
was writing upon a stray sheet and 
turned the paper towards him when 
she had done, dipping the pen into 
the ink for him. He replied. They 
were both quite serious ; he prided 
himself on his intellect, she on her 
spelling. 

She. “ Of what are you thinking, 
my friend ? ” 

He. “ Of a thousand things all 
rosy and blue, — of you, of myself, 
of us ! ’’ 


“ What a big place Paris is ! ” 






. . . One only was at its post on the 
shoulder, the other had slipped . . . 




ARMANDE. 


129 


“ So big, dearest, that in it a man 
may escape from his tailor, and hap- 
piness from envy ! ” 

“ Do you know, I ’m very much 
afraid of the women here ; they ’re 
all pretty.” 

“ Pretty, no ; attractively ugly, if 
you will. And the men, what of 
them ? ” 

“ But you don’t let me see them.” 

“ Well, but you look at them.” 

“ Wretch ! ” 

“ Well, are you pleased you came ? 
Did n’t I bring you along nicely ? 
Won’t you thank the postilion ? ” 

“ Oh, you ’re always expecting a 
tip.” 

Two kisses fluttered joyously 
away, with quivering wings. 

He. “ Suppose I throw this clock 
into the fire ? ” 


9 


I 3° 


ARMANDE. 


She. “ Why ? ” 

“ So as to put an end to it ; so 
that there’ll be no to-morrow.” 

“ Fie ! you naughty boy ! as long 
as we love each other it ’s always 
to-day.” 

“ You have most beautiful eyes.” ' 
“ Well, one must have something.” 
“ Think, sweetest, I ’ve only known 
them for a fortnight.” 

“ Have you ever been in love 
before ? ” 

“ I ? No.” 

“ Story-teller ! — and been loved ? ” 
“Yes; I have a mother, a father, 
a nurse, two dogs, which I whip, and 
a horse to which I give lumps of 
sugar.” 

“ Suppose we go out ? ” 

“ Suppose we don’t go out ? ” 

“We could have a look at the 
shops.” 


ARMANDE. 


I3I 

“ And we ’d see the devil in our 
purse.” 

“ Oh, well ; then tell me my for- 
tune, to while away the time.” 

“ Listen : you ’ll keep attachés 
waiting, and the leaders of the 
claque ; you ’ll receive castles upon 
dishes of silver; you’ll marry, when 
your dreams are over, an Italian 
count with but very few illegitimate 
children.” 

“ And what if I ’m hissed off the 
stage ? ” 

“ The public ’s the public every- 
where, — a big brute tamed by the 
claque .” 

“ Bet you ’re jealous ? ” 

“ Confess at once that I ’m the 
personal enemy of an army ! ” 

“ When I played at Langon was 
not my smile only for you ? ” 


I 3 2 


ARMANDE. 


“Yes; but three hundred idiots 
nibbled at it.” 

“ Do you love me ? ” 

“You silly girl ! ” 

“ How much do you love me ? ” 

“ I love you better than do all the 
bouquets and all the bravos in the 
whole wide world.” 

“ And what if I gave you my 
smile all for yourself, and allowed 
no one to nibble even a little bit ? ” 

“ Be careful ; I would n’t give it 
you back again.” 

“ I, Armande, no longer a minor, 
ingénue by profession, now these 
three days a Parisienne, and these 
eighteen years a woman, at the pres- 
ent time in love, I do pledge myself, 
before my old slippers, my thirty-two 
illusions, the bouquet which is dying 
on my mantel piece, and him whom 


ARMANDE. 


133 


I love, to live two hundred leagues 
from the world, from the opera- 
glasses of stage-boxes, and from 
public opinion ; pledge myself to 
give up the boards, oil-paper suns, 
rouge and glory ; to which pledge if 
I act contrary, I consent hereby, in 
forfeit, to be shut up in the country, 
in a place where there ’ll be nothing 
to give me shade but my straw hat, 
to eat rabbit every day, and to see 
my love treated as an affair of two 
sous in the four great daily papers. 

“ Drawn up between us in the 
year in which I was carried off with- 
out shedding a tear.” 




XII. 

r |' l HE young man sealed the promise 
with a kiss. The sheet of paper 
was full. He turned it over, to write 
in his turn. Upon the other side, 
written in ink which was still fresh, 
was a proposal for an engagement 
with the manage'r of the Folies- 
Dramatiques. On the following 


J 34 


ARMANDE. 


T 35 


morning the proposal became a 
signed agreement ; and the huissier 
could not be found who would find 
fault with the note of hand of 
Armande. 



V 



36 4 92 




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JUL92 



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INDIANA 46962 


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